


Focus and Distraction

by hyenateeth



Series: Gilding [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Casual Sex, F/F, Lack of Communication, Masturbation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2415569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyenateeth/pseuds/hyenateeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras wanted to have a booth on campus, that would pass out fliers for their group advertising a special meeting where they would be discussing women’s sexual health, specifically the discriminatory politics surrounding it, as well as having information at the booth about it. She wanted a banner for the booth, and fliers for the club, and at the end of the email there was a short list of possible ideas for the design, though with a note that Grantaire didn’t need to use them. </p><p>It said, <i>“I trust your artistic vision.” </i></p><p>Enjolras, trusting her. Ridiculous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Focus and Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> Shows up a year later with a fanfic update. 
> 
> I'm serious, sorry this took so long. 
> 
> Warnings for mentioned drug abuse (not of a main character), disordered eating, and general themes of depression.

The first two days Grantaire wore a jacket, because she felt her throat and stomach clench when she looked at her arm. It wasn’t even hard to explain, because the weather was on a cusp, sometimes cold and sometimes warm, almost unpredictably. It would be warming up for good soon, but for now they were still in flux, and Grantaire could pretend she wore her hoodie out of caution instead of fear.

Then she got mad at herself for feeling like that. For feeling weak, and scared.

She did that sometimes.

So she pulled out all of her tank tops, shoved all her long sleeved clothes to the back of her closet, and in a fit of half-a-bottle-of-Jack drunkenness, she painted the sickly bruise, the purple-green-red-yellow handprint, onto her self portrait. There. Let them talk. Let them be scared. Let them know she wasn’t scared, not Grantaire, not her. She wouldn’t let herself be. 

(Except sometimes. At night.)

* * *

Bahorel, who was half a foot taller than Grantaire with the sides of her head shaved and bejeweled snakebites glittering under her lips, sat next to her the next time everyone met. 

“Sweet bruise,” she chuckled. “Heard you bashed him good.” 

“Well,” Grantaire had responded, cause she didn’t know what else to say. 

“Men are pigs,” said Bahorel simply. “You wanna go dancing after this?” 

She didn’t know why her eyes went to Enjolras. The woman was talking to Courfeyrac, hair pulled back into a falling apart bun, gesturing wildly with the pen she was clutching in her hand. She hadn’t talked to her since the incident, and Grantaire didn’t blame her. 

Enjolras never went dancing. Grantaire couldn’t even picture it. 

“Sure,” she agreed, shrugging. She didn’t speak much during the meeting and drank until her brain hummed instead. People were tiptoeing around her. Bahorel wasn’t, because she didn’t tiptoe as much as stomp, Jehan wasn’t, because Jehan had lived with her and knew how she hated that, and Enjolras wasn’t, because Enjolras didn’t pay her any mind at all. But everyone else was. She could feel it when they said hello to her, the way their mouths twitched and their voices stayed perfectly level. 

It made Grantaire sick. 

(Everything made her sick though, so she didn’t really blame anyone.) 

She stood as soon as Hucheloup, the matron of the bar, yelled at them to get out, the customary ending to their meetings. 

“You ready to go?” 

Before she could get out the door though, she was stopped. “Grantaire!” 

Grantaire stopped dead, and she didn’t miss the way Bahorel’s eyebrows shot up as Enjolras strode over, walking with determined purpose as over. 

“Can I talk to you?”

Grantaire’s arm ached. She very purposefully did not let her expression change. “Can you make it quick? I kinda have plans.” 

“Plans this late-?”

“I’m going out with Bahorel. Dancing? You know dancing, that’s something some people do for fun, have you ever-”

“If you’re going to do the ‘have you ever heard of fun’ bit you’re a little late.” snorted Enjolras, scrunching her nose up. “Courfeyrac already did it today. But I have business to discuss with you.”

Bahorel let out a sharp bark of laughter, then clapped Grantaire on the shoulder. “I’ll wait for you outside ‘Aire.”

Traitor. How dare she leave her alone with Enjolras. 

Enjolras watched Bahorel leave, and then straightened her shoulders, looking Grantaire dead in the eyes. Grantaire quickly looked away, hiding it by fishing a cigarette and lighter out of her pocket, rolling the cigarette between her fingers. 

“Yeah Enjolras? Need to give me more orders about the cleanliness of my place?”

She ignored the jab valiantly, didn’t even react to it. Still pretending it had never happened, Grantaire supposed.

“I need to ask you if you would be willing to design some signs and fliers for the booth we are planning to have on campus,” asked Enjolras, in the very Enjolras way that made it not even seem like a question at all. That was probably why it took Grantaire a second to react to it. 

“You want me to-Wait, what?” Grantaire blinked at Enjolras, frowning. That wasn’t right. “Feuilly does all the design.”

(Of _course_ Feuilly did all the design. Feuilly did graphic design. Grantaire was a studio artist. She worked with paint and charcoal, not typefaces and vectors.) 

“Feuilly is going to be too busy with work for the next few weeks, so I thought you could take this project.”

It was not adding up. “Why me? Couldn’t Feuilly recommend someone with more-”

“I really liked your painting. When I saw it. I like your style, I don’t know that much about art but I think it has an edge to it that is very eye-catching-”

“Okay what the hell,” interrupted Grantaire, because Enjolras had just complimented her art, and Grantaire couldn’t breathe. Sure she had pretty much called it _edgy_ , which was such bullshit, but she didn’t really expect Enjolras to know how to talk about art, so she was pretty sure it was meant to be a compliment. “Why the hell do you, I mean-”

“If you’re worried about compensation rest assured, we have funds set aside that we normally use to pay Feuilly that we can use to pay you-”

“That’s not the issue, I -” Grantaire’s words caught in her throat. She didn’t know how to say what she was thinking, which was _I thought I was useless_ without it coming out sounding vindictive, and she didn’t want to fight with Enjolras. Not now, when all she could think of was Enjolras standing in front of her ugly, pretentious self-portrait and looking at it like it was actually something. She stared very resolutely at her cigarette, before raising it to her mouth and lighting it. 

“Whatever,” she said. “I’ll give it a shot. Email me the deets?”

Enjolras looked like she wanted to ask her if she was sure, but to her credit, she didn’t. “I’ll do it tonight.”

“Cool. If I fuck up don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Then she saluted, and turned as quick as she could. 

“Have fun with Bahorel,” called Enjolras from behind her, already sounding like she was thinking about other, more important things. Grantaire didn’t respond.

* * *

She danced with Bahorel and only Bahorel that night, ignored all other girls even though normally she would have at least made a token effort to chat up a girl. She also got even drunker, drunker than she had been earlier, drunker then Bahorel, drunker than she had intended to get, until she wasn’t so much dancing as she was holding onto Bahorel as she danced, until she laughed and said something about taking her home. Grantaire tried to protest, but the words were muddled, and Bahorel managed to get her outside anyway.

The cab ride was a blur. Everything was a blur until she was being dropped onto the futon in her dark apartment.

“Hey,” Bahorel was saying. “Hey, you hungry? I’m hungry. What do you have?”

Before she could answer Bahorel was in her kitchen, rifling through her cabinets. Deciding to just let whatever what was happening take its course, Grantaire slumped down and let her eyes close, the noise of whatever Bahorel doing swimming through her head. She didn’t know how long she stayed like that, but eventually the quiet disturbed her and, eyes still closed, words thick in her mouth, she called out. “Bahorel?”

“Yeah girl?”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Cooking.”

Grantaire forced her eyes open, and tried her best to pull herself out of her slumped position. “You can cook?”

“I can cook easy mac, which is what you have.” 

Grantaire tried to make sense of what was going on, her dark apartment, Bahorel in her equally unlit kitchenette, making mac and cheese at god-knows-when in the morning. 

“You’re drunk,” she eventually called back. 

“Oh you should talk little miss wine cask! Where do you keep your bowls?”

“Cabinet on the left.” She is trying very hard to focus her mind, and she is almost glad Bahorel didn’t turn the light on, because it was dawning on her that she was probably very drunk, and being in the dark was probably best. She had almost gotten a handle on things, eyes adjusting to the dark, when Bahorel came over and thrust a bowl of mac and a glass of water at her. Grantaire wrinkled her nose. “Why did you-” 

“Shut up and eat it; I made it special for you.” 

“It’s mine-”

“Just eat you little punk!” 

Grantaire blinked dimly at the dishes in her hands, before obediently draining the water glass so she could set it down and begin picking at the macaroni with her fingers, licking the cheese off her fingers before remembering that civilized, sober people with company _usually_ used spoons, which Bahorel had kindly provided for her.

She ate in silence for a few minutes, getting lost in little sensation the way she sometimes did when drunk. It was one of the reasons she did it, to drive thoughts from her head, make everything new and unique, even just the scrape of a metal spoon against her teeth or the warmth of the bowl in her hands. 

“You a little better?” asked Bahorel after a bit, Grantaire put all of her energy into licking the spoon. Grantaire looked the woman standing in front of her, squinting her eyes to focus even though she had adjusted to the dark.

“Huh?” she asked through the spoon in her mouth. Bahorel was very pretty, she thought idly. Even in the dark. She had also broken a man’s arm once on public transport. Grantaire wished she was like Bahorel. Bahorel was so big, big in spirit, not like Grantaire. Grantaire was shriveling. She frowned around the spoon and tried to go back to focusing on the sharp taste of fake cheese. 

Bahorel grinned and ruffled Grantaire’s hair. “You were really wasted for a bit there. I didn’t want a repeat of the time you threw up on my good platform sneakers.”

“So you fed me dyed orange food so if I threw up it would be extra gross?” 

Bahorel just laughed. “Well, it looks like you can sit up on your own now at least. You want another glass of water before I go?” 

“You’re going? What time is it?” 

Bahorel pulled her cell out of her pocket, flipping on the light, only flinching a little at the light. “Almost 3. Shit, and I have work tomorrow.”

So did Grantaire, she remembered, but she grabbed Bahorel’s arm anyway. “Stay.”

“I can’t-”

“It’s too late, you can’t walk home, there- there are people-”

“Grantaire.” Bahorel cut her off, grabbing her hand and squeezing it, almost too hard. “I’m taking a cab, I’m not walking. It’s chill.”

“Oh. Right.”

“It’s fine. You’re not going to throw up right? You’re lookin’ off.”

Grantaire frowned heavily. “It was one time Bahorel.”

“One time with me. Joly has told me stories. Drink some more water, lush.” 

Bahorel let go of her hand and smiled big and broad, undeterred by Grantaire’s slip of vulnerability, and Grantaire watched her leave. 

Then she was alone, in her dark apartment. 

To avoid the strange, quiet loneliness that she was left with she grabbed her laptop, almost falling off the couch in the process, before deciding to just give into gravity and let herself slide to the floor, leaning against the couch as she booted up her laptop. 

And Enjolras had already emailed her, like she had requested.

She didn’t know why that surprised her, because Enjolras was all about efficiency of course, but maybe it was... Well. The idea of being a priority for Enjolras was odd, and her mind went back to that night, that night that she wasn’t thinking about but also couldn’t stop thinking about, Enjolras looking at her and-

But that wasn’t it, it couldn’t be. It was just cause this was important for the cause. Grantaire was a last resort, that was it. 

Still, as she skimmed the email, eyes too unfocused to truly read the small letters on the screen, she thought about Enjolras, composing an email just for her, maybe as soon as she got home, like she was actually important to the group, like she was useful-

Grantaire swallowed a lump in her throat and closed her laptop, shoving it to the side. She needed a distraction. She was disgusting, she really was, and pathetic, but she was also tired and-

Almost absentmindedly she unbuttoned her jeans and reached inside them, letting her head loll back against the couch. 

She masturbated there, on the floor, roughly, messily, for maybe half an hour or more, until she was only sore and sweaty and no closer to coming and not even feeling pleasure anymore, and in her dizzy frustration she pulled her hand away and shouted angrily, thumping her head against the couch painfully.

Of course she couldn’t even make herself cum. Of course she couldn’t even masturbate right. 

Grantaire didn’t cry, but she did give a dry sobbing noise, grabbing the fading bruise on her arm and squeezing it till it hurt.

Of course she couldn’t do anything. 

(She woke up the next morning feeling sick and dry mouthed, her laptop and an empty, cheese-stained bowl still on the floor. She tried not to think about it.)

* * *

Enjolras wanted to have a booth on campus, that would pass out fliers for their group advertising a special meeting where they would be discussing women’s sexual health, specifically the discriminatory politics surrounding it, as well as having information at the booth about it. The email also mentioned something about a possible new petition, since the last one had failed. She wanted a banner for the booth, and fliers for the club, and at the end of the email there was a short list of possible ideas for the design, though with a note that Grantaire didn’t need to use them. 

It said, _“I trust your artistic vision.”_

Grantaire considered telling Enjolras she couldn’t do it.

It might not even count as a lie. Grantaire was busy. She was always busy. Art classes were work, incredibly time consuming work, and she did have a real person job, as well as a real drinking and self-loathing problem to make time for. 

But she had already agreed. And Enjolras had asked her.

Grantaire reread the email again, nursing her hangover with coffee, snorting at the end. Enjolras _trusted her artistic vision._ It was ridiculous, except not at all, but it was easier for Grantaire to ridicule than admit to being touched.

Her email back was brief, telling her she would send her thumbnails before the week was up and she could pick from those. 

Enjolras, trusting her. Ridiculous.

* * *

Sometimes Grantaire went out and sat on her balcony, which was not a balcony at all. It was in fact a fire escape cause her place was too cheap to have a balcony, but she could pretend. She liked to sit out there, smoke a little, drink more than a little, and listen to the noise of the city blowing past her ears like the wind. She liked to pretend she was very high up, miles above the city. She was only on the third floor, but she liked to pretend.

Grantaire liked heights. 

Always had really. She liked the dizzy, airy, rush of looking down, the feeling of holding on to something, like you are going to fall, the empty feeling, the void. When she was little she liked to climb tall trees, and was good at it too. She had only fallen a few times over the years, and falling had its own excitement, its own rush, the feeling of wind and your belly going hollow, until the sharp impact of the ground that knocks all the breath out of you and replaces it with pain. Grantaire remembered, a couple times, lying there after she fell, dazed and pained, remembering how to breathe, and looking up at the sky and thinking, _that was almost nice._

(Grantaire had always been a little fucked up.)

So she sat out there and drank and smoked and sometimes she talked to Stuart, who lived upstairs. 

Stuart was worse about liquor than her, and not so great about heroin either. She didn’t know what he did for money, because he didn’t seem particularly functional. He had a girlfriend though, some girl named Eliza, who Grantaire had never spoke to or even seen. She only knew her name from their loud fighting or their loud fucking. She assumed this Eliza was out of Stuart’s league. She had never seen Stuart, and didn’t consider him a friend, but she thought any girl might be out of his league. It was okay, though. She knew the feeling. 

Her interactions with Stuart were usually the same. She would be out their drinking, and she would suddenly hear stumbling around on the metal of the fire escape above her own. 

“Hey Stuart!” she would yell. “Get your ass back inside! I’m not talking to the cops if your wasted ass falls and breaks your goddamn neck!” 

“Fuck you, bitch!” he would call back, but he would go back inside, and Grantaire would pat herself on the back for a job well done.

(Grantaire was also a little bit of a hypocrite.)

Stuart was not out that night, when she got back from work, feet and back aching. She was in peace as she sat out on the balcony, legs threaded between the metal bars, a bottle of brandy in one hand, a cigarette in her mouth. She wished she could get higher up. Maybe the roof. 

She wished Enjolras was with her. 

She swallowed hard and ground out her cigarette. She had to use those feelings to make something nice for Enjolras. She couldn’t disappoint her. 

(All she could do was disappoint her.) 

She went inside to sketch out some thumbnails.

* * *

Three days later Enjolras texted her. She was working in the studio at the time, on a new painting, and checked her phone absentmindedly when it vibrated in her pocket, text-tone drowned out by EDM music blaring through her headphones, expecting it to be Joly maybe, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, not Enjolras. 

**Enjolras**  
 _How are the thumbnails going? :)_

Grantaire stared, stunned, at the smiley face for a good minute before responding. 

**You**  
 _Finished actually. I was going to scan them and email them to u 2morrow_

**Enjolras**  
 _No need, I can just come over to see them today._

Then, a second later: 

**Enjolras**  
 _If that’s okay._

Grantaire was going to throw up. 

**You**  
 _Sure. U free in an hour? Painting rn_

**Enjolras**  
 _Sure :)_

Grantaire was definitely going to throw up. She quickly pocketed her phone and turned up her music.

Then she turned up at her music and threw herself into painting, because that was easier to analyze the fact that Enjolras was texting her, and texting her emoticons at that. 

Which was how she turned up at her own doorstep fifty minutes later, bag full of her paint and brushes and mediums on her shoulder, colors staining her hands and arms, looking generally gross and unkempt, to find Enjolras already waiting. 

“Was I late?” she asked, trying to seem as normal as possible, not like she had spent the last half hour thinking about a smiley face on a screen and trying to decode its secrets.

“No.” Enjolras brushed her hair out of her face, and didn’t smile, but didn’t exactly frown either. That is an expression Grantaire would rather see over text. It seems like it would be more honest at least, directed at her. “I was just early.”

So Enjolras ended up sitting in her apartment, on her couch, with Grantaire’s sketchbook in her lap, looking through the thumbnails, as Grantaire hovered by, too nervous to watch Enjolras’s face as she flipped through.

“I uh. Well most of them are more illustrative than what Feuilly does, I’m just... It’s more in my wheelhouse, or whatever. S-Some of them are colored as examples. I figured that scheme would be good for all of them but if you don’t like it, um-” Grantaire babbled, making a pretense of cleaning up her apartment to avoid eye contact. 

“I like the color.” Enjolras said simply. “It’s eye catching.”

“Red is... a little aggressive, but I figured, so are you, so...”

Enjolras snorted. Then she held up the sketchbook. 

“I like these two for the banner. Which one do you like better?”

(It was weird, doing this. Grantaire had never done a _commission_ before, had never considered her art good enough to sell at all. She had certainly never expected to be doing design, she had always just figured she would get her useless studio degree and then... Well. Then what?) 

Before Enjolras left, not long after she arrived, Enjolras smiled at her a little. “You seem to be doing better.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Yeah, well.” 

Then Enjolras left with a wave, and Grantaire waved back, watched her go. She stood in her apartment for a while after, feeling uneasy, but not knowing why.

* * *

The thing was, Grantaire wasn’t lazy. She really wasn’t, though sometimes when she couldn’t stand to get out of bed, she felt it, felt it like an ache in her bones.

She wasn’t lazy though. She preferred working, preferred being busy, because then she didn’t have to think. Grantaire hated thinking. Her thoughts betrayed her at every turn, misremembering or remembering too well or over-analyzing events and words until she couldn’t stand it; couldn’t stand herself. 

When she threw herself into work though, there was none of that. Only the task at hand. Wait those tables. Mix that paint. Keep your hands moving, your brain in the moment. A distraction. 

So she was almost glad for the added burden of the designs. She could run herself ragged, and this time for something good. For Enjolras. 

So she forgot to sleep, and sometimes to eat. She could be useful, maybe. She wasn’t lazy, she really wasn’t. Enjolras would be so proud, if she knew, if she found out. She did the same thing, right? Threw herself into work, though for her it probably wasn’t so much a distraction as it was focus. Grantaire was good with distractions, not so much with focus. 

Still. Grantaire could pretend they were the same. Sometimes.

Except it never lasted. Distractions only worked so well. She always needed more, if not work then fun, mindless fun. If not fun, than alcohol. The alcohol always worked. 

So that was probably why after a week, a week where she finished a painting and worked long shifts and went to class and labored over Photoshop, unsure of what she was doing, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking and her thoughts kept going to weird, dark places for no reason, so that Thursday night she ended up in a dance bar, on her way to completely wasted, dancing sloppily to shit music. 

Courfeyrac had invited her out, had invited them all out. Almost everyone had come too, even Enjolras, not dancing of course, but sitting at the bar. (“How did you snag her?” Bahorel had asked at the beginning of the night. Courfeyrac had laughed. “Guilt tripping mostly.”) Something about Enjolras’ presence was making her uncomfortable, but Grantaire didn’t think about that. Her hands weren’t shaking anymore, so that was enough.

Of course then she ended up at the bar next to her. 

“Pallas Athena!” she cheered, grinning, all teeth, nearly spilling her drink as she swayed onto a stool. “Among the Maenads at last! What brings you to the revelry?” She slurred _revelry_ ever so slightly, but Enjolras, merciful angel, was kind enough not to mention it. 

“I believe the words ‘never see you unless its business’ were used, and then some songs were sung at me pointedly, and I was convinced that even if I don’t drink I should come. To spend time with my friends. How are you Grantaire? Your arm looks better.” 

Grantaire blinked, then realized what she was talking about and twisted to see her forearm, the color on it smooth again. She had forgotten, sort of.

“Oh well. Bruises don’t last. I don’t want to talk about it.” She brushed damp hair out of her face. She couldn’t quite focus on Enjolras’ face, and the dim light in the club didn’t help. In her haze she wondered why Enjolras didn’t glow. It would make sense for her to, a warm golden light. 

(No, that was stupid. It made her seem stupid.)

“How are-” Shit, Enjolras was talking. Grantaire tried her best to focus, to be coherent. “How are the designs going? I wanted to print them out in the next few days, if that’s...”

“What? Oh yeah. No totally. I mean. They’re not done. But they’re... They’re totally on track- I mean-” She wished she could focus. Enjolras was frowning at her, and it was making her suddenly nervous, and she was way too drunk for this. “I mean I’m not as fast as Feuilly but I’ll _definitely-_ ” 

“Grantaire-” 

_“‘Aire!”_

Hands were grabbing her arm suddenly, pulling her so she turned, and then lips were on the side of her mouth, like she had been going for her lips or her cheek and hand had missed both. The smell of perfume rushing into her nose, and when she pulled back it was a girl, with blonde hair with pink lips, and Grantaire’s stomach dropped out. 

“‘Aire,” continued the girl. “It’s been forever. How long has it been? Who’s this?” She looked over Grantaire’s shoulder at Enjolras, whose expression Grantaire did not even want to see. This was Charlotte, Grantaire could remember now, from a few months back. Her hair was dyed blonde, and it was straight, her eyes brown instead of blue, but she had high cheekbones and a straight nose that reminded her of Enjolras, and had giggled when Grantaire flirted with her, had been flattered by her attention in a way that made Grantaire feel lightheaded. 

She had fucked her twice in the span of a week, once quick and messy in the bathroom of a club, once in her apartment, with her mouth and hands all over her, and then Charlotte had asked her if she would be interested fucking her where her boyfriend could watch, and Grantaire had started avoiding her, supposing Charlotte would forget her. 

But here she was, when she was sitting right next to Enjolras. Grantaire wanted to die. 

“Ch-Charlotte-” Grantaire started, but words were as hard as thinking, and Charlotte was talking again.

“I didn’t interrupt anything did I? Oh no, is this your-”

“No,” said Enjolras quickly, and Grantaire could her annoyance in her voice, enough that it made her turn again, soon enough that she could see a glare, before Enjolras stood from the bar. 

“Enjolras-” she tried, but once again she was being talked over. 

“It’s not important Grantaire. Go have fun.” Then she was walking away. 

“ _Grantaire_ ,” started Charlotte again, grabbing her thigh. “Missed me?”

Grantaire looked helplessly back at Charlotte, head swimming. Enjolras knew, she knew she knew. And she was disgusted, and why wouldn’t she be, Grantaire was disgusting she was disgusting she-

“I...” she tried, before settling on “I have to go.”

She ended up throwing up in the alley behind the bar. It wasn’t a good night.

* * *

Grantaire really was almost done with the flyers and the banner. It had been a hard process, harder than it would have been for Feuilly, sitting in front of her laptop with her little Cintiq tablet, figuring out the intricacies of fonts and vectors and what looked best, because it was actually very different from traditional media, and she had dabbled a little in digital, but not enough to be fast. And she wanted these to be perfect.

For Enjolras. 

So she had gone slow, meticulous, more detail oriented than she normally went, and so it was slow, but she just wanted it to look great, every letter placement, every color. 

She hadn’t known how to express that to Enjolras. Enjolras trusted her artistic vision and she didn’t want Grantaire to think she was incompetent though she probably was and well-

Grantaire fucked everything up.

When did she not. 

Because Grantaire wasn’t even that upset that Enjolras probably thought she had barely started the flyers, she was upset because she had seen Charlotte. She knew now. She knew that Grantaire was disgusting and fucked girls who reminded her of Enjolras, and of course Enjolras must hate her now because what kind of _stalker _-__

Enjolras had to hate her, but Grantaire hated herself more.

She didn’t sleep Friday night and finished the designs instead, cigarette in her mouth the whole time like a lifeline. Her hands didn’t shake at all. 

Saturday night, running on a few hours of midday sleep and coffee she had grabbed in between waiting tables at work, she went out.

* * *

Most of the girls Grantaire fucked were straight, or at least called themselves straight, and Grantaire figured it would be rude to question that, even as she fingerfucked them. It was easier that way, at least. Straight girls didn’t expect things from her. They didn’t expect anything from her, except an orgasm and maybe a fun story to tell people later, the time they experimented in college. Grantaire was okay with being an experiment, most of the time. 

She was an experiment, and they were a distraction. A replacement. A fair trade really, even if most girls didn’t even offer to reciprocate physically, and if they did Grantaire could easily deflect the offers, because being touched was too close to affection, and Grantaire wasn’t sure if she could handle that. 

She needed it though. Sometimes. Sometimes, touch helped her forget. 

Grantaire really needed to forget. 

She dressed sort of nice, a skirt and leggings, and even more make up than normal, trying for pretty except with maroon lips and caked on mascara, and walked, not flinching at corners or afraid she would be grabbed, until she reached this lesbian bar she normally avoided. 

It was fucked up, maybe, but Grantaire felt like she didn’t fit in with other queer girls, except for the girls at the ABC, and that was different. Somehow. Here, she always felt sort of judged, sort of out of place. 

Of course she felt out of place everywhere, so it probably wasn’t the club’s fault. 

(And maybe it wasn’t even feeling out of place, maybe she was more afraid of the possibility of fitting in too well. Of making things feel real. Acceptance was a scary prospect, because acceptance was a hairsbreadth away from rejection. Indifference, that was more Grantaire’s speed.)

It was dark inside, music playing, and maybe sometimes Grantaire would dance, but she didn’t feel like dancing. Instead she sat at the bar and nursed a drink, finishing it before someone sidled up to her.

“Hey,” said the woman, and her smile was crooked. “I’m Claudia.”

Claudia was dark-skinned, with strong looking arms that were covered in tattoos, and hair dyed shock blue. Her eyes looked nice, from what Grantaire could see in the dim club light.

Grantaire smiled back as well as she could. “I’m... My name is Aurélie.” She wasn’t sure why she said that. 

Claudia smiled at her broader. She had very white teeth. She was very pretty. “Can I buy you a drink Aurélie?” 

She let her buy her a drink, and when she put her hand, warm and strong, on Grantaire’s thigh, she didn’t move away. 

“What do you do Aurélie?” she asked, after she finished telling her about her own job, a sous chef at some restaurant that Grantaire was too broke to eat at, but had applied to for waitressing back when she was on the job hunt. 

“I’m an artist,” she answered, hoping she sounded sure about it. She wasn’t used to telling people that. Normally when strangers asked her, ladies on the bus mostly, she lied seamlessly, because the truth made people judge her, or ask her a bunch of questions. 

Here, she was only saying it in hopes of it getting her laid.

“That’s amazing!” said Claudia, flashing her white, straight teeth. “What kind?”

“Paintings mostly. I like painting people. I’m. Well. I’m just an art student really, but-”

“That’s still amazing!” And she squeezed Grantaire’s thigh, leaning in slightly so she could drop her voice and still be heard over the music. “I think that’s great. I love artistic girls.”

Something ached painfully in Grantaire’s chest, but she suppressed it, took a sip of her drink and smiled coyly. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” breathed Claudia.

Grantaire did not know what else to say. She was not good at flirting like this, on equal grounds. It was easy when she expected the girl to brush her off, she could swallow any feeling about it, and it made reciprocation feel like a rare gift. She felt different, when someone really liked her back. It hurt more. 

She didn’t know how to continue this small talk, so instead she placed her fingertips on one of Claudia’s bare arms. 

“We could, uh, talk about it more at my place.” She was trying to seem cool, collected, even though she could feel herself sweating. God, she felt inept. 

Claudia, luckily, didn’t seem to notice her fumbling. She grinned, and her teeth were so white. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Which was how Grantaire ended up pressed up against the door inside her flat, gasping as Claudia took her teeth to her throat.

She kept making noises, low in the back of her throat, and Claudia’s hands were running along her sides and her thighs, and Grantaire thought she might cry. She was overwhelmed, because she has fucked a dozen girls but she couldn’t remember the last time someone focused on her. It was strange and scary, letting herself feel good, letting herself feel wanted. Claudia sucked a bruise onto her throat then soothed over it with her lips, and mumbled, “You’re gorgeous,” into her collarbone, and Grantaire felt faint.

So she pushed Claudia back.

“Couch,” she panted. “I want to go down on you.” 

That was something she could control. That was something she was good at. And Claudia groaned “Oh fuck yes,” and grabbed Grantaire again, so that was good. 

It was easier when she was between Claudia’s thighs, mouth pressed to her cunt. This was something she could do. She had given head to a lot of girls and was good at it, liked it. She liked the way in that moment she could just be senses, no thoughts or words or melancholy. She was just taste and smell and feel, just the moans Claudia was making above her, just the hand fisted in her hair. 

Claudia gasped Grantaire’s name, her _given _name, as she finished, and that made her stomach twist with something she couldn’t place, but she pushed it down, ignored it. No feelings. No thoughts. Just the sharp taste and the throbbing on her tongue, the tugging pain in her scalp.__

__Claudia gasped through her climax and Grantaire let herself taste that too. She let it be an indulgence._ _

__Then it was over, and then he was being pulled, and she let herself be guided up._ _

__“That was so fucking hot,” growled Claudia, pulling Grantaire into her lap. “You’re so fucking hot.”_ _

__Grantaire tried to hum noncommittally, but Claudia was pushing her shirt up, running her hands over her stomach and cupping her breasts, and it turned into a whimper before Grantaire could help it._ _

___Months,_ the scary part of her mind supplied. _Its been months since anyone has touched you like this, since anyone has wanted to and you can’t even remember the last time-__ _

__“You’re amazing,” continued Claudia as she unhooked Grantaire’s bra, pushing it up, and Grantaire made a choking noise so she wouldn’t argue with her, explain why she was wrong, Grantaire had fooled her somehow, tricked her into thinking she was more than she was. She shouldn’t think like that, not now._ _

__No thoughts, just feeling._ _

__So she pushed back the acid panic and self-loathing in her throat as Claudia reached a hand down, slipped it under Grantaire’s skirt. “Can I?” She asked._ _

__Grantaire nodded because she couldn’t talk. She wanted this. Needed this. She needed to be touched._ _

__Her skirt was hiked up and her leggings and underwear were pushed down, and Claudia’s fingers were as strong as the rest of her, pulling moans from her easily as they worked into her, and everything felt _good_ , almost overwhelmingly so. Grantaire clung to her shoulders desperately as the woman fucked her, her eyes clenched shut, thighs trembling, mouth open._ _

__When she came it was with a broken cry, no words, no names._ _

* * *

__“Can I stay the night?” asked Claudia._ _

__“Sure,” said Grantaire like it was no big deal, like she didn’t feel a pain in her throat from holding back a rush of emotions. “You have to help me fold out the futon though.”_ _

__(She didn’t sleep very well.)_ _

* * *

__When she woke up she was pressed up against Claudia’s body. Immediately she rolled away, before Claudia could wake up too._ _

__She hadn’t gone to sleep like that. She had fallen asleep with a safe distance between them, staying very still, listening to her breathe just to remind her that yes there was another person there. She didn’t know when in the night that had changed._ _

__She got up, pulled on a t-shirt that covered her thighs, and went to scramble around her messy apartment, pick up last night and last weeks clothes, go to the bathroom, wash last night’s smudged make up off her face. She flinched a bit while doing the last bit. When girls didn’t stay the night she didn’t have to worry about disappointing them in the morning. It would probably look worse to leave it on though, make it seem like she was trying too hard._ _

__Still, in the light of day, without her lipstick and her eyeliner, the powders and creams covering and contouring, all there was to look at was the pockmarking along her crooked jaw and the bags under her sunken eyes, and Grantaire prayed Claudia wouldn’t mind too much._ _

__She decided quickly to make coffee, to focus on doing that instead of looking in the mirror._ _

__The smell of coffee was what woke Claudia up, and she wandered into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed, smiling coolly. “Morning, gorgeous,” she greeted, and hopefully didn’t notice the way Grantaire paused at that._ _

__“Morning,” she greeted back. “How do you take it?”_ _

__“Milk, no sugar. Mind if I use your bathroom to freshen up?”_ _

__“Not at all.”_ _

__And Grantaire was left alone in her kitchen again, and she could let out a breath. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. They could have could have coffee then Claudia could leave and they could both come away with a nice morning after. Maybe Grantaire could look back at this, remember the way waking with a body next to her own felt and-_ _

__A knock on the door startled Grantaire out of her thoughts making her jump and almost spill the coffee she was pouring into a mug shaped like a cat (a gift from Joly). She got solicitors, mostly of the religious variety, semi-frequently due to the general openness of her apartment, but most of them had the goddamn decency to not show up before noon. Most of them._ _

__Groaning, Grantaire tugged at the hem of her shirt to make sure it was indeed covering everything, because while she was not above scandalizing a bible thumper, she would rather not flash one._ _

__“Calm down, I’m coming!” she shouted at the knocking, which was really more like banging, and maybe it wasn’t a solicitor? She had paid rent last week though, so it couldn’t be her landlord, unless he wanted to bitch her out about some other thing._ _

__“What the fuck do you want?” snapped Grantaire, grabbing the handle and pulling the door open and-_ _

__“Did I wake you?” asked Enjolras._ _

__Grantaire felt her heart drop._ _

__“N-No.” she muttered. Then quickly, she cleared her throat. “But you could have. Why are you trying to knock down my door first thing in the morning?”_ _

__It was actually already nine, and Enjolras had probably already been up for hours. She looked it. Not that she didn’t always look gorgeous, but she was looking particularly bright-eyed and alert, and Grantaire realized how she must look in comparison. So much for having a good morning._ _

__Before Enjolras could answer though, they were interrupted. “Hey Aurélie, where’s your- Oh oops.”_ _

__She stopped, and Grantaire quickly looked back, and thank god Claudia had put pants on. Of course she was shirtless, with just her bra on, but still. Small mercies._ _

__“Um,” said Grantaire, because her coffee was still sitting on the counter and it was way too early for this. “Sorry. Claudia, this is Enjolras. Enjolras, Claudia.”_ _

__“Nice to meet you,” said Claudia, suddenly wary. “ Aurélie, where’s your hand towels?”_ _

__“Oh. Under the sink.”_ _

__Claudia turned quickly and disappeared back into the bathroom._ _

__There was an awkward silence where Grantaire did not look at Enjolras._ _

__Enjolras broke the silence._ _

__“...I can see I’m interrupting something.”_ _

__“More like you’re interrupting the tail end of something.” Grantaire groaned and rubbed a hand over her face. This was too much right now. She turned and shuffled back to her kitchenette, grabbing her coffee and taking a swig, even though it was still a touch too hot to drink. “Now, considering you literally never visit me, what the hell do you want Enjolras?”_ _

__“I visit you!” snapped Enjolras, taking a step into her apartment, which, alright, was her right considering Grantaire had just walked away from the open door. She was suddenly very aware of the circumstances though, Enjolras in her apartment, when Grantaire is wearing just a t-shirt and has sex hair and, oh yeah, _her one night stand is literally still there.__ _

__Normally when Grantaire felt like this, she drank._ _

__“When do you visit me?”_ _

__“I visit.”_ _

__(Grantaire didn’t want to think about the times she had visited.)_ _

__Suddenly Claudia was back in the room, nodding at Enjolras briefly before storming over to Grantaire, grabbing her arm, and dropping her voice to a whisper._ _

__“Look, I’m going to ask you something, and you better just shoot straight with me.”_ _

__Grantaire just kind of gaped._ _

__“Is she,” a sharp jab in Enjolras’ direction, whose mouth was drawn up tight. “Your girlfriend? Cause she is giving me the evil eye and if she is and you didn’t tell me so help me god-”_ _

__“What?” coughed Grantaire. “What? No! She-” Grantaire wildly glanced over at Enjolras, then lowered her voice. “That would imply she could stand me. She’s just... I don’t know. We’re in an organization together. She’s commissioning fliers from me.”_ _

__“Honest?”_ _

__“I swear. I’m not that sleazy.”_ _

__Her face quickly softened. “Okay I believe you. You can’t blame me for asking though.”_ _

__Grantaire chuckled humorlessly. “Trust me. It’s nothing like that. She just has permanent bitchface. She screams when she gets really mad.”_ _

__Claudia smiled slightly, straightening up and turning away from her, to the direction of Enjolras._ _

__“It’s been nice meeting you Enjolras,” she said courteously. “Aurélie tells me you to have business, so I’ll be getting out of your hair.”_ _

__“You don’t have to,” said Grantaire quickly, though she wanted to say _please stop using my first name_ even if that really wasn’t Claudia’s fault, she had told her to call her that, though she couldn’t quite remember why. “I mean, I’m sure it can wait a few-”_ _

__“No, its okay. I’ll have to be getting ready for work soon anyway.” Suddenly she was leaning down and pressing a kiss to Grantaire’s mouth._ _

__“I had fun,” she whispered, almost against her mouth. “Hit me up if you want to do it again sometime.”_ _

__Then she pulled back, grinned, nodded at Enjolras one more time, and left._ _

__And all of a sudden Grantaire was left alone with Enjolras._ _

__Enjolras, who had not said a word or even made eye contact with her since Claudia had reentered the room._ _

__Awkwardly, Grantaire cleared her throat. “Well I have some extra coffee now, if you want it.”_ _

__“I’m good.”_ _

__“Hmm.”_ _

__Grantaire took a large swallow of her own coffee._ _

__Anger hit her the same time coffee hit her empty stomach. How dare Enjolras do this. How dare she show up and ruin her morning when Grantaire was trying to _forget_ her, trying to be better. How dare she judge her, how dare she- _ _

__“She seemed nice.”_ _

__“You could say that.”_ _

__Enjolras was messing with her hair absentmindedly, pushing it out of her face, looking thoughtful. She looked like that sometimes when she was reading, the rare times she studied in public. Then she looked up at Grantaire._ _

__“She called you Aurélie.”_ _

__Grantaire turned around, facing her coffeemaker again. She couldn’t look at Enjolras right now. She was too bright._ _

__“You don’t let anyone call you Aurélie. Not even Jehan.”_ _

__“Whatever. Its not a big deal.”_ _

__“Not a big deal?”_ _

__“Let it go Enjol-”_ _

__“You didn’t even tell me your first name when we met but she-”_ _

___“Well when you finger me maybe I’ll let you use my first name too!”_ _ _

__The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. The next second she slammed her cup on her counter, coffee spilling hot on her hand, and all of a sudden she was crumpling, her legs giving way, barely catching herself with her elbows on the counter, bowing her head._ _

__“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. That was inappropriate.”_ _

__“Grantaire...” And Enjolras’ voice was more tentative than she had ever heard it. “Are you okay?”_ _

__“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m sorry I said that, it won’t happen again.” She took a deep breath and pushed herself back upright, dully observing the spilled coffee, dripping off the countertop. “I’m fine. I... I need to clean this up.”_ _

__Then she spun around, not making eye contact with Enjolras. “You’re here for the designs? I have them on a flash drive. I was going to get Courfeyrac to give them to you today, but you’re here now.”_ _

__She was moving fast now, not wanting to stop. She hurried past Enjolras, over to the bedside table where the flash drive was, grabbing it and thrusting it in Enjolras’ direction._ _

__“Here. Tell me if you want anything changed.”_ _

__Enjolras didn’t say anything._ _

__She hesitated like she might, but she didn’t._ _

__Instead, she just squared her shoulders, and nodded. “I’ll do that. Thank you for getting them done so fast.”_ _

__“Anything for you.”_ _

__The words hurt her mouth like knives, but Grantaire smiled wryly as she said them anyway._ _

__Enjolras nodded again, and then hesitated again. Grantaire had never seen her so timid, so careful with her words. She was almost proud of herself that she had done that. She would have been proud, if she weren’t so ashamed._ _

__Then Enjolras looked her dead in the eye, gripping the flashdrive tight in her fist._ _

__“You should probably rest Grantaire. Now that these are done. You seem tired.”_ _

__“No rest for the wicked and all that jazz. See you next meeting.”_ _

__“Right.”_ _

__Then she was gone._ _

__And Grantaire was alone._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi on my [tumblr.](hyenateeth.tumblr.com) Encourage me to update things faster.


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